


'Til it's Gone

by irrelevant



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen Masquerading As Ship, M/M, Nakama, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know how this is going to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til it's Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime during those days at sea in manga 490. Character exploration and nakamaship. And porn—let's not forget the porn.

And this is how it goes, will go, how it has to go, because there's no other way it can go. Because it's always going to be like this, you: standing at the counter peeling vegetables, a cucumber, and he's sitting cross-legged in the sun puddled in the open doorway, sucking on a bottle of sake that's the last of what used to be seven, and it's who knows how many days until Fishman Island. He should be all bandages from his ankles to his shitty green head, but he took them off because they were in his way, and now he's drinking himself into a stupor when he shouldn't even be out of Chopper's infirmary. Every time you turn your head towards him the glare from outside hits your eyes, and then you shut them and the colour you see through your closed lids is red.

"Quit staring," he says, and his eyes are shut too, and you wonder how the hell he knows you've been looking.

"Not staring," you say. "There's nothing here worth staring at. Go easy on that rotgut, it has to last."

"There's still rum."

"Doesn't mean you'll be drinking it."

Your knife-hand blurs and the first ten slices come off paper thin, too thin for your purposes. Carefully, you lay the knife down and flex your fingers. Your hands are cramped from gripping too hard. You need a new cigarette because the one in your mouth died minutes ago. You need your galley to yourself because your concentration is zero percent, and on-time dinner isn't happening with him here. You need him to go away, go heal up already and leave you alone because every time you look at him you imagine it, the paw print he walked into, and he screamed, you think you heard that and you definitely saw the blood that came after, dripping motherfucking _red_.

There's an unsmoked cigarette crushed between your fingers. You don't remember taking it out, but you're looking at it, looking at brown tobacco spilling out of torn white paper when his hand closes around your forearm. You didn't hear him coming. His fingers tighten and he shakes you, just once, and you let go. The cigarette lands on too-thin slices of cucumber and part of you thinks, _I was going to eat those, no food wasted at sea_ , but the rest of you is centered on the living vise around your wrist.

"What are you doing, moss-for-brains?"

"What are _you_ doing?" he asks. "You were staring at that stupid cigarette like it chomped you or something."

You look from his hand to his face; there's a kind of smirk there, a quirk of lips and eyebrow, and the anger in your gut sloshes acid onto the walls of your stomach, burns its way up your oesophagus. One quick jerk, a snap of your wrist and you're free. You lay your chunk of unsliced cucumber aside, grab the cutting board and reach for the bin. "I don't have time for this shit. Go pickle your liver someplace else."

The serrated knife-blade scrapes cucumber and tobacco off of stained wood. You clear the board completely, rinse it in the sink and thump it back down on the counter. You drop a new cucumber onto it and start peeling and seeding. Back to the beginning: chop-chop redux.

"What's wrong with you?"

You want to slam the knife down hard enough to penetrate the board; you want to jam it up under his chin, push it in until it breaks skin. You won't do either of those things—you refuse to disrespect your equipment that way—but he's behind you, breathing on you, and if you didn't know Chopper would kill you for it, you'd kick him through the bulkhead and be damned to Franky's precious Adam wood.

You turn to face him, pulling another cigarette out as you do. You light up, still not looking at him, blow your first smoky breath in his face, and while he's busy choking on it you say, "You know, I'm pretty sure I told you to fuck off."

"Asshole. I'll leave when I'm ready." He coughs again, waves away the smoke. "This is about what happened back on the zombie ship, isn't it?"

Non sequiturs: the Zoro catch of the day. "What the hell are you talking about?"

His hand drops down to rest on his sword hilts. He tilts his head to one side and his earrings clack discordantly together. He arches his eyebrows at you, his expression telling you he can't believe you don't know what he's talking about.

"The sucker punch," he says. "Hilt to the gut, remember? I figure that's why you've been acting like someone shoved a pole up your ass."

He takes a step towards you and you match him; it's the kind of response he expects from you. Between you and him, there's no other kind. You let a thin trail of smoke leak from the corner of your mouth and, "What the fuck difference does it make?" you ask him. "I didn't call you on it when you were next thing to a corpse, and if you'll shut up about it, I won't now."

"The difference is, you're sulking like a damned kid." He rubs his free hand over the back of his neck. "You're pissed that I got the drop on you."

Your scalp prickles. Every hair on your body must be standing on end, and it feels like forever before you can speak around strangling fury. "You stupid fucking marimo bastard," you say, and your voice is flat nothing.

This time it's your step forward and his match. There's not even a foot of deck left between you; his head is still cocked, his eyebrows still up. He's smirking at you with his whole body. You shove your balled fists into your pockets because if you don't, you'll hit him, and his ignorant ass isn't worth fucking up your hands over.

"Don't talk shit to me about stuff you don't understand. Just get out of my galley."

"No."

You don't know what this is. You don't know what the stupid marimo thinks he's doing. He's so close you can smell him, can feel the heat of his body and his mule-headed determination to do the exact opposite of whatever you want. The hot puff of his breath glances off your jaw, but he doesn't touch you. He doesn't move at all. He just stands there looking at you, his gaze boring into you as if he can see inside your head, and his mouth tightens like he's going to say something. His nostrils flare, his eyes narrow—

"Sanji-kun?"

You're close enough to see his reaction ripple through his facial muscles, and you know how he's going to move before he does. His head snaps around like an animal scenting danger, and then he's backing off you, stepping away.

"Sanji-ku—oh, you _are_ here." It's Nami's voice and a moment later it's Nami herself: standing in the galley door, a frown puckering her lovely brow. "Tell me you idiots aren't fighting." The frown teeters towards glare-dom. "Zoro, if Chopper has to rebind you… do I need to remind you how expensive medical supplies can get? Or shall we say an even six-hundred percent and leave it at that?"

He doesn't answer her—crude, unmannered bastard—just gives her a dirty look and stomps out, taking the rest of the sake with him. Nami watches him go. She waits until his thudding steps fade before crossing the deck to stand beside you. Her gaze rests for a moment on the cluttered counter and then she looks up at you. The frown is still there.

"Chopper says he's not healing as fast as normal," she tells you. "The smallest thing could set him back, and that includes the two of you being your usual moronic selves." She sounds so disappointed in you that you immediately regret being a party to anything that might have caused her the slightest distress.

"I will do better, Nami-san, I promise. I'll ignore the marimo and think of you instead."

She smiles at you, for you, and you bask in the rarity of her approval as she reaches up and pats your cheek. "I know you will." She glances again at the clumps of vegetable littering the counter. "Are you sure salad is a good idea? While I'd love some," she says almost wistfully, "I don't think it'll be enough for Luffy."

"No, no," you say. "That's for the soup. There will be several meat dishes, of course, but if Nami-san would like salad, Nami-san will have salad."

Another smile; another layer melted off your heart. "I'm sure whatever you have planned will be marvellous," says your goddess, "but if you really don't mind—?"

"Anything for you. Anything at all." You mean that, unconditionally.

"Thank you, Sanji-kun, you're a true gentleman." She gives you one more heart-stealing smile—a master thief is your Nami—and leaves you to your cucumbers.

The galley door swings shut. You stub your cigarette out, pick the cuke up off the cutting board and run your fingers over it. No bruising, which is surprising considering the abuse it's been subjected to. Your knife slides through the outer skin easily; peel separates from translucent inner flesh and coils down onto the board. A pile of seeds and fibers collects beside it. You'll have to clear the board before you finish prep. The door bangs open again, and Usopp sticks his head in.

"Hey, can I have an eggplant?"

"I doubt it," you say. "What do you want it for, anyway?"

You wipe your hands free of cuke guts and grope through your pockets for a new cigarette. Somewhere out of your range of vision, someone is snickering. Usopp scowls and his head briefly disappears. You hear him hiss, "Shut up, he hasn't said yes," and then he's back, grinning sheepishly at you as he sidles into the room.

"Sorry about that. For? It's for, er, important research. Really important," he says, getting invested in the lie the way he always does. "You might not know this, but I'm actually an expert on all things eggplant. In fact, I'm president of the Sailors for Solanacaea Society. My comprehensive dissertation on cross-pollination practices is considered to be—"

"Usopp."

"Eh?" You can almost see overworked neurons struggling to translate fantasy into something approaching real.

"If I give you the damned eggplant, will you shut up and go away?"

His grin is wide and immediate. "Yep."

"If I've got one, it's yours." You take a step towards the fridge, but stop, turning back so quickly your out-flung cigarette almost goes up Usopp's nose. He yelps and jumps back, and stares at you out of eyes wide over the hands cupped protectively around his nose. "One condition," you say in your best take-no-shit tone, the one that used to scare the crap out of even Zeff's cooks. "Anything you don't use, you eat."

"Su-sure thing, S-Sanji," he stammers as you pull chives and a pint of heavy cream from the fridge. You toss him the most shriveled of four eggplants and knee the fridge door closed.

"Bring me the leftovers." You're almost certain he only wants the shell. "I'll make ratatouille tomorrow."

"What's that, Sanji? It sounds good!" Luffy is hanging in the doorway, sparkling and drooling, which is a damned disturbing combo.

"It's good when I make it, but right now I've got other things to sauté. Beat it, brats." You ding a pair of apples in Luffy's direction and he dives after them with a whoop. Usopp nicks your newly peeled cucumber on his way out; he ducks the swing of your ladle, crunching on his ill-gotten gains and cackling, and makes good his escape to the sounds of your shouted, "Shitty locusts!" and the ladle's clatter off the closing door.

You stay where you are, standing next to the fridge and lighting your cigarette while you listen to Luffy and Usopp squabble over the eggplant. As you calculate the odds of said eggplant ending in Luffy's stomach versus its possible career as Usopp's latest explosive, you notice there's a new dent in the door where the ladle impacted. You decide you kind of like it. It's a mark of interest, a piece of this galley's history. Although, you doubt Franky will see it that way. You bend forward and pick up the ladle, toss it in the sink before you reach for the cutting board.

Thanks to Usopp, you're starting over _again_. There's nothing left but slimy seeds and parings. Just for the hell of it, you lift a curled peeling by one end and watch it uncoil. It bounces in the air, shiny and green, but for some reason you're seeing discarded strips of white cloth where there should be a cucumber peel. You open your fingers.

The peel drops into the bin, which you shove to one side. You suck in a lungful of smoke and pick up the paring knife. This is your galley. Your galley is life, and more than that, it's your life. There's no room in a galley for heavy thinking. Think too hard and your scallops end up burnt instead of seared.

You grab a potato. The cucumbers will keep.

 **::**

As always, dinner is a success. Six racks of the fire-breathing not-a-zombie goat Franky and Brook killed in the Thriller Barque woods go down easily and in volume. Pounds of scalloped potatoes are devoured to the last cheesy scraping. The almond-crusted poultry escalope and endive with fresh mozzarella and tomato earn you a pair of appreciative smiles from Nami and Robin, and your special chive and cucumber vichyssoise pleases palates both discriminating and not. In fact, there's one typically indiscriminate palate that doesn't seem to be eating anything else. Your gaze drifts from the empty bowl at Zoro's left hand to the full plate in front of him. He catches you looking and his fingers tighten around his fork; he stops shoving uneaten meat and potatoes into unappetizing lumps.

You look further up, up into his face and he meets your eyes, and then he's swiveling his chair to the left and rising, leaving the galley without a word. Luffy slurps the last of the soup. Franky belches and gets smacked by a stray hand from Robin and Nami's very real fist.

"Ow! Damn it, Sis!"

"Hmphmphmmph!" Luffy points and laughs through his full mouth, and you land a flying kick to his and Franky's heads.

"Don't talk with food in your mouth," you say for what's probably the thousandth time but won't be the last, "and don't swear at ladies," you add for Franky's benefit.

Usopp, who's one of the faster learners in the room (not counting the ladies, of course), swallows before saying, "What's up with Zoro? He's usually cleaned his plate by now. Unless Luffy gets there first, I mean."

"Zoro didn't finish? Cool!" With a rubbery _splort_ , Luffy unpeels his cheek from his mostly empty plate and reaches for Zoro's full one.

"Perhaps," Brook says over the sound of your foot connecting with Luffy's skull for the second time in five minutes, "the meat did not agree with him. Sometimes rich food doesn't sit easily in the stomach. Of course, these days I would not know, as my digestive tract rotted away many years ago, yohohoho!"

"Oi, enough already with the rotting crap, we're trying to eat here," Franky mumbles.

"Both of you shut up!"

You catch Nami's delicate fist before it can damage itself on bone or metal. "Allow me, my lady. Talented, beautiful hands such as yours must be preserved at all costs."

For a second it's a tossup as to whether she'll hit you or them. Then her innate honour engages, and she relaxes back into her chair and smiles crookedly at you. "Be my guest."

"It's my pleasure."

Soon, Franky has a second lump to match his first, and Brook is doing an inadvertent forty-five degrees against the port bulkhead. "Listen up," you say, "thanks to Nami-san's gracious generosity, there's mikan sorbet in the freezer. If this table isn't clean in three minutes, I'll be finishing what Nami-san and Robin-chan don't _by myself_. Clear?"

There's a discordant chorus of, "Yeah, Sanji!" and the galley is abruptly full of movement. Nami is grinning at you over the top of her wine glass while Robin laughs behind a carefully placed hand. At least, you think it's laughter. With Robin-chan, it's sometimes hard to tell.

Something knocks into your hip and you look down and around at a plate-laden Chopper. "Oh!" He blinks at you. "Sorry, Sanji, I wasn't paying attention."

"Not a problem." You give his hat a light thump and take the plates from him. "Sit down, I've got these." You elbow your way through to the sink, landing a kick to Usopp's backside as you do. "Scrape that bowl before you put it in the sink, shithead."

"Can we have dessert now?" Luffy whines.

"After I serve Nami-san and Robin-chan," you say and boot him out of the prep area. "Go siddown and chew on some patience."

Serving goes as well as it usually does, with Luffy trying to scarf the contents of three trays at once, and Brook, Franky and Usopp pounding the table with spoons in sync to their repeated, "Mi-kan, mi-kan, mi-kan." Robin's hands hold Luffy in place while Nami shrieks the three shithead amigos into silence, and then there is silence of a sort—the kind that goes with intense culinary appreciation.

Luffy dumps half a gallon of sorbet down his throat, swallows, and beams at you. "Sanji, this is really good!"

"Thank Nami-san, idiot—without her, there'd be no sorbet." Out of the corner of your eye, you see Robin set her almost empty wine glass down, and you circle around to stand beside her. "More, Robin-chan?"

She smiles up at you—her mature beauty gives the expression something Nami's doesn't quite have yet, though each is as lovely as the other in different ways—and you think what a delight it is to see her so free with her emotions. "No thank you, Sanji," she tells you, and every part of you sings at the sound of your name on her lips, when for so long you were Cook-san. "I've had enough for the evening. After your excellent food, all I want is to shower and fall into bed."

"Mmm, sounds perfect." Nami stretches her arms above her head and you manfully ignore the lift and bounce of her most prominent charms while silently agreeing that the idea of Robin plus shower and bed is perfect indeed. Then, "Want some company in the bath?" she asks Robin, and every drop of blood in your upper regions heads south.

You think you might be whimpering. You hope you're the only one who hears it.

Nami looks at you from under lowered eyelashes and, "Why Sanji-kun, whatever's the matter?" she asks. She's wearing her most concerned expression, and you know that she knows that you both know exactly what she just did to you, is _still_ doing to you, enchanting minx that she is.

"I'm at the peak of health, Nami-san," you tell her. "Never fear, your prince is in prime condition, ready to defend and protect (and anything else you might desire) at a moment's notice!"

"Pfffft." Usopp sprays a mouthful of sorbet all over Franky, who says, "Hey," and whacks him a good one. You set your tray on the counter and in lieu of kicking Usopp's shitty head in, you loosen your tie. Looks like tonight's dishwasher just volunteered himself.

"Oi Brook, what's the game tonight," says Luffy.

Chopper leans forward, waving a hoof, so excited he's almost bouncing in his seat. "I'm playing!"

"Hmn." Brook strokes his bony chin. "I believe tonight's match of wits and luck will be Mahjong. Are we three or four players?"

"I'm out." Franky pats his stomach and shoots you a thumb's up. "Good one, cook-bro. That really recharged the old circuits." He raps his knuckles against the side of his head. "Got a schematic I wanna get cleaned up before I hit the sack, so you guys'll have to find somebody else's beli to take."

"Not mine," Nami laughs. She pushes her empty bowl towards the center of the table and stands. "Robin?"

"I'm coming."

"Allow me, ladies." You hold the door for them, bow them on their way, and when they're gone you lean against the closed door and indulge yourself in a moment's fantasy of warm steam, slick tile and wet, silky skin.

Franky's the next to leave, on a wide yawn and a, "Later, bro!" He's followed quickly by Brook, Luffy and Chopper, the three of them talking nineteen to the dozen; Brook's been teaching them a new game every third night, and if nothing else, it's kept them out of the galley after-hours. Usopp tries to edge by you on the fringes of their crowd, but you hook a meat fork through his overall strap and reel him in. "Dishes. You're up."

"But Sanji, I was gonna—"

"You can cheat those shitty dumbasses out of their beli _after_ you clean up. And remember." You use the fork to pull him closer until you're nose-to-really-long-nose. "You break it, you replace it."

"Y-y-yes, Sanji." He goes straight to the sink and starts running water. You tuck your hands in your pockets and stroll towards the wine rack.

Thanks to the Rolling pirates, aside from sake, your stock is more than decent. You pull out another bottle of the vintage you served with desert. A moment's deliberation and you retrieve a second. You'd like some yourself, and with the marimo around and only one bottle, that's a snowball's chance in hell.

Tucking the bottles under one arm, you walk past Usopp's sloshing and rinsing to retrieve the bowl of sorbet you left in the freezer. With a little hand to hand to head juggling, you get the bowl and bottles balanced out before you reach the galley door. Your hand is flat against wood, preparing to push, when a thought occurs to you. "Oi," you say without turning. "Usopp."

"What?"

Another series of angry sloshes. You grin around the unlit cigarette in your mouth. "Where's the rest of that eggplant?"

The sloshing stops. You turn halfway around, and Usopp is frowning ferociously at nothing, his hands dangling limp in the suds. He mutters something "— _know_ I got the percentages right, so what—" that makes absolutely no sense to you. No eggplants in there anywhere.

" _Oi_ ," you say again, and he jumps.

"Huh? Oh." His frowned concentration edges towards worry. "There wasn't anything left, I needed all of it. I'm still—it needs a few adjustments." He eyes you sidelong. "Is that…okay?"

"Fine, just so long as it's not wasted. What's the problem? Didn't go off when it should've?"

"Yeah, I…" He stops talking and stares at you. "How'd you know?"

You laugh at him as you nudge the door open with your hip; it closes after you on one of Usopp's more creative curses. The sudden switch from bright to dark briefly screws with your eyes, and you pause just outside the galley while you wait for them to adjust. You glance at the lawn and find it empty of its usual occupant, which surprises you some—although you don't see Zoro, you can hear him counting. Then you look towards the bow, and there he is: legs wrapped around the foredeck railing, doing mid-air curls.

"Five-hundred thirty-eight."

Hefting the wine in one hand, you push the galley door all the way shut with your foot. The stairs are slippery under your soles; the grass is damp with rain from earlier today. The last island was summer, the next will be spring. You're closer to the latter, but the humidity of the former hangs in the air, and thunderstorms have been the Sunny's companions these last two days.

"Five-hundred forty-five."

You stop at the base of the lowest set of stairs—wine in hand, sorbet dish balanced on your head—and watch Zoro curl himself towards six-hundred. You notice that, even though the moss-head claims he doesn't need them, a thick layer of bandages covers him from diaphragm to waist, disappearing underneath his waistband.

You stamp your foot on the third step up and, "Oi shit swordsman," you call. "You got a problem with my menu, or what?"

Zoro freezes mid-curl. His tight-shut eyes snap open and his upside down scowl is almost comical. "Don't you have dishes or something?"

"That's what minions are for." You mount the last staircase carefully. Yesterday's serpent currents threw some interesting sea life up on deck, and today Chopper and Usopp were still finding odd, squishy shapes in unexpected places. Tripping on a tentacle while you're carrying breakable objects isn't high on your to-do list.

"Six-hundred." Zoro finishes his count and hauls himself upright just as you set your burden on the foredeck and slide down to sit beside it. While you light your cigarette, he uses his discarded shirt to wipe the worst of his sweat away. He glances at the wine. "Where's the party?"

"I feel like drinking. One of them's yours if you want it. That's yours, too." You jerk a thumb at the bowl of sorbet.

He clumps over and drops down to sit across from you, eyeing the sorbet as though he expects poison or, at the very least, an explosion. "Eat it, dipshit," you say. "You probably sweated the soup out already."

Another wary look, this one directed at you, but he picks up the dish and digs in without protest. You lean your head against the bulwark, prop your elbows on your bent knees and watch him eat.

In the past, you've made comparisons between Luffy's eating habits and Zoro's. You're realising now that one is nothing like the other. Luffy is a human vacuum; everything gets sucked in at once. Zoro's more… methodical. He eats quickly but neatly, just as single-minded about his food as he is everything else, and it's almost as though he eats because he has to, not because he wants to. He doesn't eat so much as fuel himself, and that's what he's doing now. He didn't get enough earlier and he's still hungry. Which makes tonight's untouched plate even weirder.

"You know," you say on a rush of smoke, "if you don't eat right, all the training in the damn world means jack shit."

He mumbles something you can't make out.

"Speak up, I can't hear you."

"I said, not much you can do about any of it if the stuff you're eating is coming back up."

Robin and Nami must have finished up in the bath. You can hear their voices coming towards you across the lawn. The pad of footsteps mounts the forecastle stairs, and after a moment you hear the door to the women's quarters open and close. Zoro lays his empty bowl on the deck and reaches for one of the wine bottles and you say, "What?"

Pale light reflects off the three katana lined up side by side, propped against the bulwark; the white sword's sheath glows softly. Zoro rests his free hand on his thigh and looks back at you, his eyes unreadable. "Don't take it personally, cook, it's got nothing to do with your food." The corners of his mouth curl. "Funny, huh? If I was Luffy, I'd just eat meat and I'd be okay. I'm not rubber, though, so his damage works different on me. Guess my stomach can't take as much punishment."

It makes sense, which kind of surprises you. He's obviously thought this out. What _doesn't_ make sense is for the muscle-headed moron to keep something like this to himself. After Nami's almost fatal exposure to the keschia, and your sojourn on Drum Island, the idiot ought to know better. "So you tell Chopper," you say. "He'll fix it."

He shrugs. "Nothing he can do for internal bruising. It'll go away on its own."

"So you're gonna… what? Keep puking up the stuff you can't digest?" You flick the butt of your cigarette away and slap your palms flat on the deck to keep from punching his stupid, stubborn face. "Maybe I can understand Chopper, but why didn't you say something to me? It's my galley, dumbass."

"I _am_ telling you."

"Yeah, _after_ you've torn your gut up."

He shoots you a disgruntled look and scrapes a hand through the spiky moss he calls hair. "This is why I didn't," he says. "'Cause I knew you'd pull this shit. Tell you, don't tell you, I get the same reaction. Damn it, cook, what the hell do you want me to say?"

Well that, you can answer. "I want you to shut up," you tell him, and then you've got a fistful of moss and your mouth is making sure he follows through.

It's less a kiss than a crush of lips and teeth. You push into him with your tongue and your frustration, and you make him take it. Everyone else around here says, "Okay, Zoro," but not you, and you want him to know that, selfish shitty asshole, and you're making sure he'll remember it every time he opens his damn mouth from now on.

You started it and you're the one who ends it—you stop when you realise he's not resisting. When you realise you're rubbing your hard-on against his hip and all but licking his goddamn tonsils. You pull back, dragging yourself away from him on your hands, you want out of this that much, you need away from here and him and yourself so bad you'll tear up your palms to do it. And your mouth feels like that bastard Crocodile's been living in it for a month, and your chest feels like the delectable Ms. Valentine just stomped it into the ground along with your heart, and you can't believe you just _kissed Zoro._ Zoro, who doesn't seem to be sharing your little meltdown. He keeps brushing the pads of his fingers over his mouth, over and over, and fuck he just, he needs to _stop_.

"This is your problem?" he says. "This?" He makes a back and forth gesture with the hand not molesting his lips, indicating the two of you.

"What? No! I don't—" You swallow your stumbling denial down—it won't get you anywhere, not with him. As usual, he's got everything backasswards wrong, and (also as usual) you can't seem to get it together enough to tell him that.

He watches you flounder for a couple of really uncomfortable moments, his expression one of amusement. "Moron. You should have said," he tells you, and he's coming towards you, reaching out, palming the back of your neck and pulling you into a kiss that makes yours seem chaste.

It doesn't last long. Just enough to set every nerve ending in your body alight, and he's shoving you back, pushing you down and crawling on top of you, and you're flat on your back on the deck and he's propped over you on hands and knees. His thighs bracket your hips, holding you in place; his hands press your shoulders into the deck and his mouth opens over yours again, lips nudging, tongue pushing in, and he tastes like chives and good wine and mikan. He tastes like Zoro, a taste you've never wanted before tonight, but he's in your mouth and you've got it, him, and he's a taste you think you're going to acquire. And when you reach up and grab a handful of green hair to pull his head to one side so you can get inside him easier, you realise it's a taste you acquired before you even knew enough to want it.

He bites you, sharp fast sting, and you taste your own blood, and he's tasting it too, sucking on the cut he made, and the thought of that small amount of you inside him rushes through your veins, down away from your brain and into your dick until you can't think anymore, don't understand anything but the heavy pulse between your legs. You make a weird sound and it's all animal, doesn't sound the least bit human, and your hips buck up against him and he laughs, short and rough.

"Getting there," he says, his mouth moving over your throat and, "Getting _where_?" you say in a strangled voice, but his hands are between you, pulling at belts and zips and fastenings, and oh fuck _there_.

His hand—shit, his hand is down the front of your slacks, inside your boxers, wrapped around your cock, and he's pulling your trousers and underwear off your hips. The deck is cool and smooth beneath your bare ass, and the unexpectedness of the sensation is the impetus that kicks your last functioning brain cell into gear. You grab his wrist and his hand stops its measured, almost lazy pulls on your dick.

"What the _fuck_?" you rasp, and he grins at you, his teeth white against the black surrounding you.

"Chickenshit," he says, and when you squawk your denial he laughs outright. "Calm down, love-cook, it's not your ass I'm interested in. For now," he adds, and you'd kick him, make him tell you what the hell _for now_ is supposed to mean, but he's knocking your legs open and kneeling between them, he's bending down and sucking your dick into his mouth, and your last brain cell just blew and no just isn't happening here.

It's not that you can't say no. You can, yeah absolutely. You could grab his head, pull his mouth off your dick and tell him that you don't do guys, ever. He'd be okay with it, too—he'd let you off, let you pretend that first kiss was a misunderstanding on both your parts, and you'd never talk about this again. Never do this again. Never have his shitty mouth wrapped around your dick again, and yeah he's a guy and he's got a dick, no soft pretty bits for you to stroke and worship, but he's sucking you _off_ , and it feels so good you think your brain might be melting out your ears.

His fingers close tight around the base of your dick. Your cockhead slides from his mouth with a soft sucking sound, and he raises his head and looks up at you, and his mouth is shiny wet in the moonlight. You stare at him, at his mouth and, "Fuck," you say. "Why'd you stop?"

"Because we both wanna get off, and I'm not wasting this." He gives your dick a quick squeeze and backs away some, yanking at his clothes, and when he stops at one boot with his pants three-quarters off, you start to get the picture.

"Oi, hold it," you say as you push yourself up on your elbows. "I don't—"

"Yeah, I know you don't, but shit happens," he says, cutting you off, and for the first time you hear the pent-up tension under gruff stoicism. "Look, are we doing this or what? Tell me yes or no, and let's fuck or not."

The mental image you get when he says fuck makes your cock jerk and your balls tighten, and you guess that answers a few of your own questions. Not all of them, but Zoro's is definitely in there, so, "Yeah," you say, almost choking on it. "Yeah, I want to fuck you, you shitty bastard. Get back down here."

You don't know how the hell you managed, but you're pretty sure you just said the right thing. The permanent frown lines on his forehead don't look so deep, and he actually smiles at you, just before he drops back down on his knees between your legs and sucks your cock back into his mouth. _Your_ mouth is open, nothing but strangled gargling coming out of it, and he makes this satisfied noise around your cock, and that's fucking _it_.

Half a ship away, the galley door slams. Distantly, you hear Usopp clomp down the steps and across the lawn. The door to the aquarium bar closes with a click, and that small noise seems to crank the coil inside you tighter as white blooms across your vision.

"Gonna," you gasp, and just like that his mouth is pulling off your dick and he's straddling you. He squeezes the base of your dick, not too hard, just enough that you don't blow. His other hand is somewhere behind him, and he…oh shit. That's—you're not going to think about it, it freaks you out and turns you on at the same time, and you're not sure if you're going to make it through this as it is.

Sounds bounce off the inside of your head: his breathing, your muffled grunts, and a slick squelch, and you told yourself you weren't going there, but he's rising up on his knees, spreading his thighs wide across your hips, and shit yes you're thinking about it, you can't think about anything else. His hand holds your dick straight up. There's slick pressure against your cockhead and you push into it, have to, into pressure and resistance and you push again and you're through it, it's all around you tight, fuck, tighter than anything's ever been.

You're going to come now, but, "Don't," he says and he's reaching back, cupping your sac, and two fingers press hard into your perineum and suddenly you're coming without coming, coming dry in hard throbs, and it's like your balls are turning inside out.

"Shit!" So good, it is, and it goes on for what seems like forever, until your dick and balls are aching. You dig your nails into his thighs, your blood pounds in your ears, and just when you're sure your head is going to implode, his fingers give one last corkscrew nudge and are gone. The stranglehold on your balls and gut eases. Your breath rushes out of your lungs like steam out of a pressure-cooker.

"I'm going to kick you so hard you won't see land for a month," you manage to wheeze, but he just laughs, and then he moves, slides up, the inside of him shifting around and gripping your cock like his mouth did, and your hips jerk upwards after him, trying to get some of that tight hot back, and _shit_ this is going to be over fast.

 _Fucking Zoro. I'm fucking Zoro. I'm fucking inside **Zoro**._

Beneath him, you're looking up at him, and his head is back, his eyes are open, but he's not looking at you. He's not looking at anything. His mouth is a curled grimace, and there's something on his face and blank in his eyes that's almost pain but not. He's moving on you, shoving himself up and down your dick, his asshole hot and spit-slick around you, and it's like you're not even here—like this is between him and your dick, you don't come into it anywhere, and you fucking hate that, but you hate him more for making you nothing.

You're not going to let him do this to you, the stupid bastard, not going to let yourself be ignored, and you don't. You grab him, bruise your fingers into his hip and wrap some more fingers around his dick, and there's this shaky moment of _fuck_ , another guy's _dick_ in your _hand_ , but it's Zoro's dick, and it's your dick in Zoro's _ass_ , so you tell your brain to shut the fuck up, and let it go. It's a weird angle, different from what you're used to, and you don't know if he'll like what you like, but you figure some things are universal—dick, hand, pull—and you've got two out of three already. You're doing good, so what the hell? You go for three out of three and he makes this choked off noise, like a breath he can't totally push out or suck in, and this time when you look at him, he's looking back.

Not a smile, he isn't…it's not pleasure. It's a kind of satisfaction that has nothing to do with your hand on his dick, and it jars you. It's not what you're used to seeing at this kind of moment. Of course there's nothing feminine about Zoro, but also, you're usually the one steering—the one giving pleasure, sharing it with the lady who's gracing your bed. Here, there's no bed and no give, only take. And while sex with men isn't part of your repertoire, you're not clueless enough to think it's you doing the taking.

He has you, has taken, is taking—moving under your hands, over your body—and you're moving with him, thrusting up in the jerky rhythm he's given you both into. His hand closes over yours around his dick and, "Coming," he tells you, and that not-pleasure twists his face and he does, he comes, his semen spilling wet and warm down your meshed fingers.

You feel him come from the inside out, and it feels fucking amazing. His ass gets even tighter around your dick; bands of muscle constrict almost to the point of pain then ease up, release, and it's like something's released inside you. A valve has popped open somewhere and orgasm floods you, washes you away, shakes and squeezes and drains you into him until you're swimming in your own dilution and you can't tell what's you and not anymore because you're sloshed across the deck, tide pools over a wave break.

He's leaning over what's left of you, his head bowed and his hands braced on the deck just under your armpits. The air smells of him and of yourself; you and him combined, a salt-sour tang of sweat and exertion and semen. You're both breathing hard. Neither of you makes a move towards the other. But you don't move away, either.

For a while you drift, listening to the slowing thud of your heartbeat and his staggered breathing. You're coming down, cooling off, and your perspiration-soaked shirt sticks clammily to your back and chest. You shrug your shoulders, trying to get some room for your skin to breathe, and your movement seems to prod him back to life, or something like that. His head lifts, and he pushes himself up off his hands and starts to rise.

Your cock is soft and limp and barely inside him. It slides all the way out of his body with a sucking squelch to lie against your thigh. He curls up out of his crouch and steps over and away from you, but you stay as you lie. You feel like a clump of overcooked pasta; you don't want to move. You don't want to look at him or talk to him, so you turn your head to the side and close your eyes and pretend, for these few seconds only, that you just got ridden to within an inch of your life by a gorgeous woman instead of another man.

Seconds drag into minutes. Without sight, your other senses are magnified. The deck shakes beneath you in time with his movements and you hear him cursing under his breath, followed by the sound of cloth being dragged over skin, and the tread of his boots. His footsteps stop near your head and you can't put off dealing with him any longer. You open your eyes.

He's standing above you, trousers and boots in place, his shirt dangling from his hand. He drops it onto your chest, says, "Should probably clean up," and you realise that you're lying here in the open with your dick hanging out for all passers-by to see. Not that there are likely to be any, but likely means shit on this ship. If Nami or Robin was to see you like this…

"You shitty damn fool. Stupid, bull-headed—" _These_ curses are all you, your own special blend; you're not sure if you mean them for him or yourself. Both of you, maybe. You grab the shirt, clean yourself up as best you can, and drag your trousers back up your hips. Your muscles protest as you push yourself into a sitting position and reach automatically for a cigarette. You notice that he's sitting across from you, back to the bulwark. His arms are crossed; he's watching you and your eyes catch on, meet his and you can't, you won't look away first.

The book of matches that lives in your right front pocket slips from your fingers and lands on the deck with a soft plop. You open your mouth and close it. Open it again and leave it that way, your lips working silently around words that aren't there. You don't know what to say or if there's even anything you want to say, but he's smirking at you, sardonic and sour, and you know exactly what's going to get said.

"It's supposed to be about pleasure. That—I've known guys who…" You stop, take a breath and say it flat out. "Why the hell would you want to tear yourself a new one just to get laid?"

His laughter shatters the air. It bursts on your eardrums, rattles your brains in your skull, and he's still laughing, his chest heaving, and you can see dark spotting on sweat-stained bandages.

"Oi shithead, knock it off. You're bleeding, you stupid—"

"Aho cook." Stray laughter hitches his voice and crinkles the corners of his eyes. "It doesn't always work out like that. I like it rough—most don't. When you're done being chickenshit, I'll show you the other way."

"Shut up," you mutter, but you don't call him on the chickenshit thing because he's right. You think you might want this again, and with him, but the idea of him doing to you what you just did to him—what he did to himself with a little help from your dick—pushes the panic button in your chest all over again. And maybe you're breathing too fast and shredding a cigarette when you should be lighting it, so maybe when he reaches over and whacks you on the back the head you jump like one of those shitty Lapins and screech like a ten-year-old girl. And maybe he laughs like the idiot he is until you kick him in the shin just to shut him up.

"Bastard," you say, and he grins at you, his shark's grin, like you're the funniest stupid-joke on the Grand Line, the Red Line and in all the Blues combined.

"Don't think so hard, you'll break something," he says and reaches past you for the wine you left sitting in the middle of the deck. He jerks the cork free and takes a long pull, and then another, and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth and silently hands you the bottle. You wipe the glass lip on the tail of your shirt (it's come-stained, anyway) and tilt the bottle and your face skyward.

The moon is bright and huge overhead; not full, but getting there. In the dark below, the muffled thump and thud of Luffy, Usopp and Chopper wrestling in the men's quarters sends vibrations up through the deck. Somewhere above, Brook is taking first watch. Violin notes spill, liquid, from the crow's nest, settling over lawn and sea. Moisture-thick air fills your mouth and nostrils, trickles down into your lungs as Nami's distant laughter blends seamlessly with Brook's music. You hand the bottle back to Zoro and feel through your pockets for an intact cigarette, and this one gets lit.

"Cook."

"Yeah?"

"I need to get strong again," Zoro says. "Stronger than I was. That guy—I don't think he'll be the hardest to beat." He turns his head towards you, the chink of his earrings all the noise he makes. "Food's your business."

You think maybe you've been around Zoro and his non sequiturs too long, because you actually get what this one means without having to ask. He needs his stomach back to normal, and you know better than anyone else how to make it happen. And you will make it happen—that's why you're here.

"Yeah," you tell him. "It is my business. Like those swords are yours."

He stares at you, unblinking, and he nods, and you both sit quiet on the forecastle deck; just sitting and passing the wine back and forth without talking, until Brook comes down from the crow's nest and Robin goes up.

You know you should leave then, go get some rest before you have to get up and feed the lot of bottomless pits that are your nakama but you don't. You stay, wrapped in his silence, until your calf muscles are cramping and your tailbone aches. Until all you hear are the waves and the creak of the rigging, and all that's left of the night is the stars' faded patina and the shadow of a moon long gone. And when Usopp's failed eggplant time-bomb goes off at 4AM today instead of 4PM yesterday like it was supposed to, and you and Zoro are the only reason there's still a ship between everyone's collective hide and the ocean, you figure your aching soleus and gastrocnemius are a small price to pay.

…Which won't save Usopp from getting extract of jalapeño to go with his morning caffeine. Random one-offs with the marimo aside, you have standards to uphold, damn it.


End file.
